by Sue Nicholls
Cerys shook her head. ‘Please don’t worry. It’s in the past now and I’m fine, like. Paul and I have found each other, and I hear you have a lovely relationship with your son, Mick. Paul says you work together, is that right?’
‘Yes. We run a restaurant. It’s the place where my wife, Millie, lost her life. We sort of run it in her memory.’
‘And can you feel her watching over you? I sometimes think I can feel my parents’ presence when I’m on my own.’
Mick looked away. ‘We don’t really talk about her much, but I think Lucas gets comfort from being there. He’s a great chef, just like his mum.’
‘You’re not bad either,’ Maurice interjected, and pointed his thumb at Mick. ‘Taught me all I know about cooking, which isn’t much but it’s more than when I first had to cope with my boys alone.’
Mick shrugged. Then he gave a brief laugh. ‘Remember that first meal you cooked? Sausage and chips. Afterwards, we drove to the deli in Chelterton, and I showed you how to choose Stilton.’ He paused in reflection. ‘It’s closed now. Turned into a funeral parlour. Nobody wants unpasteurised cheeses - too dangerous, they say.’ He gave a snort. ‘It’s a wonder we’ve survived all these years.’
The conversation ranged from food, through career and travel plans to politics. Cerys listened for snippets of information about her fiancé. Paul did not talk about his past, and despite scouring the house, she could not find a single photo of Fee, his dead wife, or even of his parents and childhood. It was as though he had wiped out his history along with the tragic events that befell him.
That these three had each lost a wife fascinated her. Before tonight, she had imagined that their shared experience had drawn them together, but no, they met before they lost their wives. Three men and no women. It was a wonder the children turned out normal.
Digging for more information, she said to Mick, ‘You have a daughter too, I believe.’
‘Yes, Livvie - Olivia. She’s a scientist - the brains of the family. It’s a mystery where that interest came from. As a child, she was curious about food. Not its flavour, but why eggs go hard when you cook them, and how mayonnaise thickens - it emulsifies, apparently. She works for the Environment Agency, testing water. It’s beyond me. I don’t care about the science of the world; I’d prefer to look at its beauty. Liv looks under the surface.’
‘It sounds like you’ve both done a wonderful job bringing your children up. It can’t have been easy.’
‘I couldn’t have done it without my mum, rest her soul,’ Mick placed his palms together for a second in a gesture of prayer. ‘She moved in with Fee to help with the children, and then when Fee passed, Mum stayed to look after them all. None of us would have coped without her.’ He looked at the others. Paul was snoring, but Maurice nodded his agreement.
‘I was inept.’ Maurice said. 'My mum wasn’t interested in the kids, although she helped when she had to. My dad was ill, he was a what’s-it-called?’
‘Diabetic,’ filled in Mick.
‘Yeah, diabetic. She wasn’t always available when I needed her, but Gloria,’ he nodded in Mick’s direction, ‘Would say, “You bring the kiddies over here; I’m cookin’ a fish stew”.’
His imitation of Gloria’s Ghanaian accent made Mick smile, and he said, ‘She was our rock,’ and drained his mug. ‘Time I went. I’ve got an early start tomorrow.’ He stood up. ‘Want to share a taxi, Maurice?’
When they had gone, Cerys shook Paul’s shoulder. ‘Hey.’
Paul stopped snoring and swallowed. ‘Mm?’
‘Time for bed, you drunkard. Your friends said goodbye.’
He squinted at her. ‘What’s the time?’
‘One thirty-two.’
‘In the morning?’
‘Well, it’s not the afternoon, is it? Come on, up you get. Some of us are busy tomorrow.’ She grabbed his arm and heaved him up. ‘You need a drink of water or you’ll have a heck of a head.’
‘Did Kitty ring?’
‘No Lovely, not yet.’
8 CERYS
Cerys lowered herself from the bus and teetered along the roadside, clutching her skirt in the Flintshire wind. She wore her low neckline and lurid nails in defiant rebellion.
Some distance ahead, the telephone box provided a red marker at the place from where her young sister, Anwen, would telephone Cerys when possible, and where, protected by a nearby outcrop of rocks, the two would meet in secret.
By the time Cerys reached the kiosk, her red plastic shoes were cutting into her feet. She called Anwen’s name, but the autumn squall whisked away her words. With one hand resting on the telephone box, she gripped a stiletto heel and pulled off first one shoe and then the other. The ground was chilly under her soles, and the gravel on the verge dug into the black nylon of her tights. With her shoes in one hand, she stumbled down the bank into the shelter of a hollow. ‘Anwen?’
Her fifteen-year-old sister stepped from behind a mound. Pale and gangly, she bore little resemblance to most girls her age. The only sign of her emerging adulthood was a smattering of acne across her nose and cheeks. ‘I’m here.’ She hugged Cerys.
‘How are you, Lovely?’ Cerys squeezed Anwen’s bony shoulders.
‘OK.’
Cerys pushed her to arms' length and looked her up and down. Flat lace-up shoes, a drab grey skirt and high-necked blouse under a quilted, knee-length coat. Anwen was a throwback to the fifties.
‘How are things at home?’ Cerys asked.
‘No change. I keep my head down and say my prayers, and they leave me alone, more or less.’ Her eyes travelled down Cerys’s body, taking in the black tights and red mini skirt. ‘How can you walk around like that? God will punish you.’
Cerys gave her sister a shake. ‘Don’t you think God, if he exists,’ she ignored her sister’s gasp, ‘Would be more interested in how I behave than what I wear?’
‘I hope so,’ the girl whispered, and shivered.
‘Damn right he would!’ Cerys tutted. ‘Are you cold?’
‘A bit. I didn’t get breakfast because I took too long on the bedrooms.’
Cerys delved into her bag and handed her sister a Marks and Spencer sandwich. ‘Here. Chicken and mayonnaise.’
Anwen frowned at the packet. ‘You spent money on this?’
‘Just eat it.’ Cerys ordered. ‘You need calories in you in this weather.’ She pulled out a bottle of fizzy orange and balanced it on a rock shelf, and Anwen tore off the plastic cover and bit into the sandwich. ‘This is yummy. What did you say it was?’
‘Chicken and Mayo.’
Anwen swallowed. ‘Mayo?’
‘Mayonnaise. It’s an emulsion of oil and egg.’
‘It’s nice.’
‘Good. Now drink.’ She unscrewed the bottle cap and it hissed, causing sugary liquid to explode sideways. Anwen giggled and Cerys said,. ‘It’s got all shaken up on the bus.’ Cerys watched Anwen take a slug from the bottle then stooped to meet her sister’s eyes. ‘I’ve got news.’
Anwen was all attention, her jaws still working on the sandwich.
’I’m getting married.’ At the crumpling of her sister’s face, she gripped her arm. ‘No. Don’t. It’s good news. When it’s done, I’ll fetch you to live with me - us.’
Anwen swallowed her bread. ‘When?’
‘I can’t say yet, but you carry on doing what you’re doing for now. Be a good girl and keep calling me. I’ll let you know when I’m coming and tell you what to do. He’s all right, Paul. A generous man with a steady income. He’ll soon accept you.’
‘You haven’t told him about me?’
‘Not yet, but soon. First, I need to get in with his family and friends. There’s a party coming up: an engagement party. I’ll come after that. OK?’
Anwen nodded and took another swig of her drink.
Cerys put a hand on her abdomen and lowered her voice. ‘There’s something else I need to tell you.’ Anwen stopped chewing, and Cerys grinned. ‘You’re going to
be an auntie.’
‘An auntie. You mean you’re having a baby?’ Anwen squeaked, ‘How did that happen? You’re not married.’
‘Well, Perhaps God realises we love each other. But whatever; it certainly happened. I’m going to have a baby, and you’ll be an auntie. You can help me look after it.’
‘A baby. I’ve never even seen a baby.’
‘You soon will, Lovely, and you’ll be safe. You can go to school and have friends and wear normal clothes. We’ll get you far away from Mam and Dad.’ She gave Anwen a hug. ‘You should get going. You don’t want to get in trouble.’
From the top of the bank, Cerys returned her sister’s wave and watched her walk away carrying a plastic milk container. The milk had been Anwen’s excuse for getting out, and Cerys had bought it from M & S with the sandwich. When the girl was out of sight, Cerys put on her shoes and traipsed back to the bus stop.
9 CERYS
Their engagement was not the happy, celebratory time Cerys had hoped for. Since they announced their news, Paul had spent most of the time grumpy as anything. Every five minutes, he would check his text messages in the hope of one from Kitty. Attention seeking - that’s what it was with Kitty. If Cerys was honest, she wanted Paul’s attention. She was his fiancée - his pregnant fiancée, but he took more interest in the whereabouts of his perfectly capable, rather prickly and ungrateful daughter. If something had happened to Kitty, it would throw out Cerys’s entire schedule.
She and Paul were in the Black Horse. Cerys decided a change of scenery might take Paul’s mind off his errant daughter. Under the table a large, cast iron pedestal dug into her separated knees, and four tatty cardboard beer mats soaked up puddles of brown liquid on the top. She wiped the sticky surface with a tissue and piled up the mats, wondering how four people ever fitted round this tiny table. She knew she was being as ill-tempered as her fiancée, but it was beyond her control.
Fifteen weeks into her pregnancy, she had passed the end of the first trimester although you would never guess it from her flat abdomen. At her twelve-week scan, she and Paul stared at an indecipherable blur on the screen which hospital staff assured her looked perfectly normal. They paid for an image of the baby, and Cerys had it in a pocket of her handbag. Now and then she would pull it out, hoping that, like the foetus inside her, it had grown distinguishable features, but it still resembled a newt.
A drink would be nice, she thought. Her morning sickness had eased off, but everything still tasted metallic. A nice bitter gin with her tonic would lessen the effect. But, as Paul kept reminding her, alcohol was bad for the baby.
Her abstinence delighted Paul. It meant that until she no longer fitted behind the steering wheel, he had a chauffeur to deliver him to and from the pub.
Cerys fidgeted in her chair, resisting an urge to pee. She had reassured Paul that Kitty would be at their engagement party, but if they had no word from the girl soon, he would insist on cancelling. In the search for his daughter, Paul had rung every contact he could find, including the newspaper where Kitty published most of her freelance work. The guy there told him rather irritably that they rarely saw Kitty at the best of times. ‘We’re an on-line publication,’ he snapped in a broad Glaswegian accent. ‘We get copy by email. The office is tiny.’ Kitty had filed nothing of late. No, that was not unusual as she worked on in-depth feature pieces.
At the bar, Paul’s childish ring tone blasted out, cutting through the murmur of conversation. He thought it funny to record his voice, shouting, ‘Ring-ring, ring-ring.’ All around Cerys, heads turned, mainly in amusement, and she watched Paul slip the instrument from his breast pocket. The ringing grew louder, and she closed her eyes, willing him to take the call. When he did not, she opened them to see him holding the screen at arm's length with narrowed eyes. She tutted. Did he ever remember to bring his reading glasses with him? No.
At last, the shouting ceased, and Paul put the phone to his ear. ‘Kitty!’
10 KITTY
It was a perfect autumn day. The buildings cast shadows across a corner of the plaza that fronted the prison, and dancing leaves shone orange and gold on the Maple trees. The bloody man didn’t deserve such weather.
To get here this morning Kitty had spurned her unreliable classic bike in favour of a modern, red Suzuki, and now she sat astride it at the curb wearing matching scarlet leathers, her eyes on an imposing wooden arch that formed the entrance - and exit - of the prison. A crack appeared in the portal and one half swung inwards. Max stepped into the sunlight and the door banged shut behind him. He scanned the area until his gaze settled on Kitty and he stood, transfixed.
A bolt of hatred shot through Kitty’s chest and she straightened her back.
Max approached, swinging a leather Gladstone briefcase at his side. He stopped a few yards from her, and they surveyed one another in silence.
‘You are so like your mother,’ he said in a shaky voice.
Kitty sniffed. ‘You look past it.’ She studied his clothes and bag, ‘And old-fashioned.’
‘Noughties style.’ He gave a tentative smile. ‘Thanks for coming.’
‘I may not stay long.’
The old helmet fitted Max. Soon the pair were motoring along leafy streets with Max, in unnerving proximity, calling directions over Kitty’s shoulder. His movements threw the bike off balance making it hard to control.
Their first stop was the police station. Carrying his bag, Max hopped off the bike and pushed open the door.
After a quarter of an hour, Kitty tapped impatient fingers on the handlebars as he ran out, full of apology. ‘I had to wait for my paperwork from the court. I requested it several weeks ago because I wanted you to have all the information possible.’ He mounted the pillion seat, and Kitty started the engine, yelling,
‘Don’t wriggle so much this time. And don’t raise your hopes. I’m not planning to help you.’
They coasted between the gateposts of the Victorian manor where Max had his flat. Kitty parked the bike on the bald lawn, taking in the building’s aged facade.
‘It looks about the same,’ was Max’s only comment.
As they crossed the vestibule and climbed the stairs, Max explained that he had kept ownership of his flat by letting it to a series of tenants. The earnings paid for the flat’s maintenance and ground rent. He had invested the rest.
When Max opened the door and stood back to let Kitty in, an odour of bleach and furniture polish met them. Max relaxed. ‘Thank God. The agent said he’d get it cleaned, but after all this time I worried it would be disgusting.’ He followed Kitty inside, his eyes, like hers, scanning the hallway. The flat had seen life. Scuff marks skidded along the walls, and the faded blue carpet was worn to a grubby pattern of weft and warp by doorways. Something brown splattered a line across the ceiling.
In the lounge, a vast gilt mirror topped the carved living room fireplace. It multiplied their reflection into a thousand tiny images that burst from a puncture point in the glass. Max offered a seat on the worn sofa, dumped his bag beside a matching armchair and headed for the kitchen.
‘I doubt there’ll be anything here,’ he called over the sound of opening and closing cupboards. ‘There’s a jar of coffee. Ooh, KitKats. That’s a bit of luck.’ He returned carrying a steaming mug. ‘No milk I’m afraid,’ he said and tossed her a chocolate bar.
Automatically, her hand shot out to catch it and she felt outsmarted. She did not want to accept anything from this murdering bastard, but she ran her thumbnail down the foil between the two wafer sticks.
Max lowered himself into the armchair and rummaged in his case. ‘There may be things here that upset you.’ He flipped through the papers; his face drawn. ‘These are the notes I took when working with your father. You should have them.’
Kitty glared. ‘I’ve told you I won’t be investigating your case.’
‘Take them anyway. They’re no good to me.’
She shrugged and accepted the bundle.
He gave
her sad look that contrasted with her memory of him on their first encounter, when, as a child, she had surprised her mother, Fee, at Fee’s unexpected marriage to this man. In the tiny Mauritian chapel, they had seemed so in love, and Mummy’s face had been a picture of astonishment when she saw Kitty in her bridesmaid’s outfit and carrying a bouquet.
Kitty leapt to her feet, picked up the notes and blurted, ‘Don’t think you’ve persuaded me.’
Max raised a sorrowful face to hers. ‘You know, I’ve served a sentence that took twenty-five years of my life. Twenty-five years wasted for a stupid, maliciously motivated prank.’ He twisted his mouth into a wry smile. ‘I didn’t kill her, Kitty. At first, I wanted her to suffer because she’d ruined your father’s life. In my defence, I had a terrible childhood and hated women. I wanted to believe Fee was an evil, scheming bitch, but she wasn’t. She was suffering as much as Paul. I soon realised that.’
‘So, you don’t deny pursuing her?’
‘No. I have never denied that.’
Kitty nodded. If she wasn’t careful, she’d believe him.
On her way out she decided her father had waited long enough to speak to her. She pulled out her phone.
11 SAM
The rungs of the stepladder dug into Sam’s feet, and pain knifed up his thighs as he held his body tense. Just one more dab of the brush and he would be finished. He strained to reach the spot where a swirl of darkness would perfect the drama of his ceiling. There. He lay the brush across the rim of the paint pot and flexed his neck and shoulders. Through the tall sash windows that lit the room so well, the distant ridge of Lymeshire hills was swathed in grey. It would be clammy and cold up there today, but he relished the thought of stretching his legs on the rippling footpath along the top.
A plaintive but insistent ringing came from the pocket of his jacket, hooked over a chair. Sam let the call go to voice mail and crossed to the sink in one corner of the huge, high-ceilinged space that formed his home. After cleaning his brushes, he poured a tumbler of water and regarded his work. Overall - that was an appropriate word for a ceiling - he had achieved the effect he wanted. Not too dark, but definitely dramatic. As a painter, blank spaces on walls and ceilings begged him for colour. After six years living in this room, he had finally given himself permission to cover it with paint. Now, ghostly forms of strange birds, flying fish and a creatures emerged from a heavenly (or maybe not) fissure and swooped around the room. The painting was a celebration. His reward for finishing his first decent commission. The work in question, an enormous impressionist depiction of the hills he planned to walk in later, now dominated the foyer of Chelterton Town Hall. Chelterton: the market town where Sam had grown up. It was from his childhood home in Crispin Road, Chelterton, that his mother walked from his life when he was six and later, turned up in a lake. If he tried to picture her now, it was difficult to separate the image of her long coils of hair and aquiline features from those of Millais’ Ophelia.
